


Ship of Theseus (Soul of Theseus)

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: A look at the mental toll of immortality, Alternate Universe, And the baggage and moral quandary that comes with it, And the question of When do you cease to be human?, Before this week this story was 800 words in my drafts, Body Horror, Both in a literal and figurative sense, Copious murder, Enoch is playing the role of death, I also don't know why that's becoming my moniker, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, More themes of eternity, Near Death Experiences, READ THE WARNING IN THE NOTES, Romanticizing Death, Semi-Immortality, Ship of Theseus, Suggestive Themes, These tags make this story sound very depressing, This isn't a sad story, at least i dont think it is, detailed warning in the notes, for obvious reasons, the afterlife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: Perhaps his humanity flagged there when he took another life to prolong his own.When does a man cease to be human, and become something else.
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Ship of Theseus (Soul of Theseus)

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING:  
> This story centers around the grief and mental toll that immortality can have. This is story features romanticizing Death, especially as a relief from pain/suffering, it also makes reference to an aborted suicide attempt by the Beast, and implies he may have died in a successful suicide attempt. If this may be upsetting to you in any way please do not read. You are loved, you are noticed, you are known, stay alive, if you are having suicidal thoughts the US National Suicide hotline is1-800-273-8255. Stay Alive.
> 
> If you are worried this story may affect you, please, avoid reading it.

The first time is driven out of fear and instinct, the impulse of a dying animal desperately clinging to life. 

Wounded and hurt, blood drips crimson between his fingers. 

Witches were not supposed to die in the snow, a dagger turned upon them by a boy only trying to make ends meet.

He had been human then.

His humanity had spilled out over his fingers and stained his hands. It had touched him, marred him, claimed him. 

It had tasted copper on his tongue, pooling sickeningly around him.

The proof of his humanity stains the ground.

His hand had pressed against the wound, and pain had lanced its way through him, reminding him of his humanity, his mortality.

And in humanity was fear, a fear of Death, a fear of the unknown, a drive to survive no matter the cost. 

The cost had been a young boy’s life, to extend his own, a soul burned, branded into him. 

Death lingered agitatedly over him as Beast lays, forcing himself not to stare at the boy who’s soul he traded away for his own. 

He lays on his side, one hand clutched over the wound in his stomach. 

Death touches him briefly, featherlight for only a moment, curious, testing, and in that moment, Beast knows rapture. 

For a moment, he is whole, he is nothing, he is held in the embrace of Death for a moment, and then he is not. 

He is gasping for air, lying next to a corpse with Death peering curiously over him.

Death lingers, as if waiting to see if he will release his stubborn grip on humanity to surrender his life.

He stares up at it, through it, at a sky filled with thousands of stars.

Death retreats, slinking back into the forest.

He is alive. 

The cost is grave, but he lays there, on the forest food, humanity spilling out of him and staining his deathbed. 

He forces himself to his feet.

Red stains his hands and his clothes.

It's a reminder of what he has given, a reminder of what he has lost, how he has hollowed himself.

He forces himself to walk.

* * *

Perhaps his humanity flagged there when he took another life to prolong his own. 

Or perhaps it dissipated when fear of Death melted into something much more challenging to come to terms with.

Fear is simple, comprehendible, instinctual. 

It’s the second time he skirts Death that he falls in love. 

He lays there, this time no wound drips red, and yet his humanity spills out all the same. 

He’s sick. 

Very sick. 

He knows he’s sick. 

Death knows he’s sick.

He’s been sick for a very long time.

He coughs and leaves choke his throat. 

Death is there, a looming presence, unobtrusive but ever-present. 

“How did you do that, Little Willow?” Death asks him, and Beast blinks fuzzily at the wall, Death in the fringes of his vision. “In the forest with the boy, two died, and into my hands passed neither.”

Perhaps it’s strange to speak to Death, but it is his only companion as he lays on its door. 

“My mother taught me.” He says. 

Death seems to consider this.

“She must have been quite talented.” 

That draws a laugh from Beast. It is a rough shuddering laugh, one that makes his chest ache and sends him into a bought of coughing.

“She was clever, and she was cruel.” 

“Hm.” is all Death says in reply.

The Willow’s curse tightens its grip about his lungs, and he coughs. 

His wheezing is the only sound that fills the cabin. 

It is a bell, and he needs not ask for who it tolls.

“It was impressive.” Death says when he regains control of his breathing. “But ultimately worth very little, all men are mortal, all souls are mine in the end.”

“Are they?” Beast asks curiously, trying to blink away the wetness at the corners of his eyes. 

“Of course.”

“Are you quite certain?” He prompts. 

Death laughs, low and gentle like an old friend. 

“It is my job to be so.” 

He scrutinizes Death for a moment, the abstract not-there being who’s voice is so clear, so tangible. 

“I do not believe you are wrong. However, you are also not right.” 

Interest rises up around him, a palpable shift as Death fully places its attention upon him. 

“Elaborate.” Death purrs, voice slinking closer. 

“If all men are mortals, and all mortals die, all men must be dead.” 

Death shifts closer. 

“Mortal only infers the capacity to die.” Death counters, intrigue in its voice. “Not the dead alone.” 

“But all of the dead were mortal.” Death is close now, presence clinging to the walls and spreading across the sheets of his bed. 

“Yes.” Death drawls at last. 

“And none of the living have yet proven their capacity to die.” His voice is thin and hollow, his curse wearing on him.

Death remains silent at that. 

“Therefore, the only proveably mortal men are dead.” 

“Is a dying man proving his capacity to die?” Death asks. 

“Is there a possibility he will not?” 

“There is always a possibility.” Fingers drum against his headboard, curiosity bleeding into the sound.

“Then he is always the possibility he is not mortal.” 

“Do you claim immortality, little sapling?” Death purrs, voice closer now. 

Beast grins wryly. 

“Only if I don’t die.” 

Death laughs, warm and welcoming.

“I do not know you have any control of that.” Death teases.

“I most certainly do.” Beast counters. 

Curiosity prickles around him. 

“Do you?”

Slowly he forces himself out of bed, and his hair falls around his face. 

He stands up laboriously and staggers to the doorway of his cabin. He unlocks it, and the door swings open, wind blowing rain in thick sheets down over him. 

Death follows him. 

Thunder claps loudly and casts him in stark silver. It highlights the darkness of Death, teeth painted in sterling.

His hair is matted by the rain as he seeks out a victim.

He trades another life for his own. 

Death lingers, looming over him as he sits in the hollow of the tree, the young woman’s corpse cooling at the base of the tree. He leans his head back against the tree and hums. Idly Death begins to sing, and Beast falls asleep in the hollow.

When he wakes up, the grey light of dawn filters through the rain. 

Death is gone, and he is alone again.

* * *

Sometimes death visits, even when he is not teetering upon the edge. 

He lingers along Beast’s windowsill or looms behind him right out of sight, humming and asking questions, drawing Beast into a debate. 

Death shifts with displeasure whenever Beast’s Death comes up in conversation. 

The kettle shrieks, and he deftly moves it off the stove. 

“You should not continue to do that.” Death says, somewhere low, between his feet, footsteps like those of a cat winding between his ankles. 

He pours himself a cup and leaves the tea to steep, breezing through the house to find his dagger. 

He doesn’t respond. 

“I am not a thing to be feared,” Death says from under the table, voice assuring. “There is no pain in death, only in dying.” 

“I am not afraid of you,” Beast says simply as he begins to sharpen his blade. 

“And yet you shy from my embrace.” 

“Not for lack of wanting, I assure you.” He murmurs. 

“All mortals seek release in me, even if they cling to fear, even if they have apprehension. There is no shame in being tired and surrendering.” 

Beast does not answer, and Death’s tone shifts, curious and needling. 

“Surely your sickness pains you. I could give you peace and soothe over your pains.” 

“Tempting,” Beast says dryly, tracing a finger along the edge of the blade.

Death sweeps up along his feet. 

Claws tap against the floor. 

“You live alone,” Death drawls. “Stunted by a curse, eating scraps like a scavenger. What do you have to live for?” 

“What do I have to die for?” 

Death laughs from under the table. 

“Contentment, peace, heaven.” 

“I’m not a religious man.” Beast counters. 

“Perhaps not heaven.” Death amends. “But an afterlife.”

“I do not believe in an afterlife,” Beast says, the strike of the whetstone resounds through the cabin. 

“I can assure you there is one.” 

“Is that the drivel you spill to comfort souls that are uneasy around you? Surely you can think of a more convincing lie.” 

Death’s smile drips from his voice. 

“You could always prove me wrong.” 

“How tantalizing an offer.” Beast drawls. Beast taps against the table and takes a sip of tea before turning back to his dagger. “You asked me what I live for.” 

Death hums affirmatively.

“I enjoy your company.” He says at last, and that seems to give Death pause, surprise dripping from the walls. 

“Then, why not join me?” 

He smiles wryly. 

“Because then, you will move along, find another mortal who you shall linger around, and I shall be alone. At least now, I have your company.” 

Death falls silent, considering. 

Later, Death will leave without comment only a thoughtful hum, but for now, Beast relaxes in his kitchen, sharpening his dagger, sipping scalding tea, as Death paces in odd patterns beneath the table.

* * *

When he travels, he wears a long cloak and gloves. It hides the worst of his affliction, veiling bark marred skin from prying eyes. Or at least, it had covered the worst of his affliction. 

As time wore on, the curse claimed more and more of his flesh. It creeps up along his neck and creates a mask across his face. His eyes have begun to change, luminous rings replacing iris and sclera. It’s getting harder to see in the broad light of day, and his skull aches, two nubs splitting away from behind his ears. 

They’ll become antlers if he lives long enough for them to grow.

He purchases a veil and travels with his hood up. 

Death trails behind him as he travels. 

“Why do you wear such a veil?” Death asks, walking a pace behind him along the path. 

“There are many places that will not sell to travelers with the Willow’s curse.” Death hums at that.

“I do not recall your particular affliction being transmittable.” 

“Facts matter very little to those who live their life by superstition.” 

“Such a shame.” Death mutters, suddenly very close behind him, as if he could pull Beast flush against him with a single stride. “Your eyes are so fascinating.”

There's the faintest hint of a touch along the side of his veil. He flinches. 

Dawn is grey on the horizon. The featherlight touches of pink rake their fingers across the sky, kissing looming clouds.

Beast trudges onward towards the tavern. He pushes the door open and steps inside, only to be immediately met by a woman brandishing a broom aggressively at him. 

“Oh no, you don't!” She says and thrusts at him with the broom. He flinches back. 

“I was wondering if I might purchase a room for today?” He says as he steps back to avoid another swing of her broom. 

“Uh, huh.” She says, looking not the least bit convinced. “I’m not letting you anywhere near my bar with Death following behind you. I’ll not have you leave it here!” 

Beast blinks slowly. 

The woman seems to take his silence as an admittance of guilt.

“I bet you thought I couldn’t see it. Well, I can! Now get!” She says, and he attempts to reason with her. 

“He will leave with me as he came with me,” He murmurs.

The woman put her hands on her hips.

“You’ll not bring that thing into my bar regardless!” She shoos him out of the barn, and he stands out in the cold for a moment. 

He turns on his heel and trudges into the forest, Death’s amicable strides alongside his own.

She calls after him. 

“And you’d better not even think of coming back until it’s gone!”

He clutches at his cloak, thorns, and brambles tugging around his ankles as he forages blindly onward. 

The light makes him wince. He squints against the gilded light shapes, becoming fuzzy and undefined. Staggering forward, He shades his gaze with his hand. He clutches against a tree, pulling his hood down further. 

He can feel Death circling him slowly, patiently. 

“You are weak.” Death says, and he grits his teeth, forcing himself forward. 

He must find a cave, some din or fox hole that he can hide from the day in. The willow sickness has taken his eyes. He mustn’t damage them further in the light of day.

Death stops, and Beast can sense him, even with his eyes barred tightly from the light. 

“Follow me,” Death murmurs, and Beast laughs humorlessly. 

“You’d as soon lead me over a cliff than to a shelter.” 

“Perhaps.” Death murmurs and ghosts closer. “Now follow.” He commands.

Obediently Beast staggers away from the tree following the gentle coaxing humming of Death. His steps are slow and careful, one hand cast out to brace himself against the nearest tree. 

They walk for several minutes, Death’s gentle humming a few paces ahead of him. Leaves crunch beneath his feet, and Death pauses. 

“Only a little further.” Death assures him, and he pauses warily. Death’s presence pushes on a little further, then pauses. “Come now, only a few more steps. Trust in me.”

Beast swallows thickly and takes a step, and finds the ground folds away under his feet. He swears expletives gracing his tongue before he hits the earth upon a bed of dead leaves with a thud and the sound of splintering. 

He’s landed rather badly on one shoulder. It stings already.

The cool touch of darkness is like a balm against his eyes, and he blinks his eyes open. He’s in a burrow carved into dirt, its entrance covered by vines.

Death’s laughter resounds around him.

“My, my, the vulgarities that come out of your mouth.” Death’s voice is teasing. Beast scoffs and props himself up and glances about. The darkness of the den is soothing, and after looking about to ensure the cave is entirely empty, Beast settles down on his side, twisting his head awkwardly to avoid laying on his antler nubs.

Death’s presence settles in behind him, laying like a lover, radiating warmth at his nape. 

“Thank you.” Beast murmurs into the dead leaves.

“Hm, I was hoping it was deeper.” Death teases, words hummed against the back of Beast’s neck. 

Beast laughs and falls asleep with the warmth of Death at his back.

* * *

Death is patient. Death is old, but he is not infallible. He has limits.

He grows agitated with every stolen year, sometimes pleading with Beast to stop and allow him to claim Beast. He promises a death without pain, softly cooing and assuring Beast nothing but peace if he will only lay down and let Death take him.

Beast’s eyes flutter open, the latest bout of Willow’s curse receding, allowing him to think beyond pain and hunger.

With a groan, Beast props himself upon his arm. It creaks foreignly. 

“You are cheating death again.” A voice croons sing-songily behind him. He turns to gaze upon Death.

Death’s cheerful grin twists angrily.

His voice is suddenly devoid of mirth. 

“I do not like when you cheat me.” He snarls, lurching forward, ribbons of his being caressing forward, nearly touching him. “I’ll have you yet, Beast.”

“I only do so to prolong your attentions.” 

Death’s voice is pleading. 

“I love you. Let me have you,”

“You do not love me.” Beast shakes his head. “You only desire for what you can not have.” 

Death opens his mouth to protest when he cuts Death off.

“You don't realize that, of course, but all is well. I love you.” He smiles at Death’s taken aback look. 

“Then be mine.” Death pleaded.

“No. I love you, and for now, you at the very least think you love me too.” He smiles wryly. “I would prefer to keep it that way.”

Death opens his mouth, and for a moment, he is more than abstract. He is nearly tangible. Beast holds up a hand to silence him.

“I'm sure when you finally have me, you will continue to love me for some time, but your interest will wane. I will no longer be out of your grasp. There will be nothing I can do to keep you interested. You will find something else to keep your fancy, some other persistent mortal to chase. I do not begrudge you it, Death, so please do not begrudge me the time I can steal to have your attention upon me.”

“You are wrong.” Death hisses, his usual mirth and anger devoid in his voice, only cold, steely determination remains in it now. “You are not a flight of fancy. I will love you for all of eternity.” 

“Eternity is a long time.” He says, standing slowly.

His new wooden joints creak in protest. 

“Do not make promises you cannot keep, Death.”

Death bares teeth in the sound of his words. 

“I would never.” 

A threat. 

A promise. 

* * *

He bends over the stream and dips his hand into the water. 

He stares into a reflection he barely recognizes, luminous eyes glowing, reflected in the stream. 

His joints flex strangely as he washes away red. 

It’s not his blood. How long has it been since he washed his own blood from his hands?

And yet he bleeds all the same, hollowing himself.

He hardly regrets it anymore. Their bodies, their blood, their souls, their worth skewed, incorporated into himself. Years stolen, lifetimes taken. It’s easy, practiced. He doesn't pause or hesitate, doesn't argue with himself on the worth of a life, only does his task, and reaps his reward. 

Death hums from beneath the water. 

Beast tries to focus on seeing Death through the rippling silver, trying to look past his own reflection and catch a glimpse of what lies beneath. He stares at his hands, caressed by rushing cold, caring away the child’s blood. 

He wonders if, with it, it takes some piece of him.

* * *

He feels Death’s presence before he turns around. 

It's an old presence, a familiar presence. 

“How many lifetimes has it been now, Beast? Six? Seven?”

“Twelve.” He murmurs, voice soft. Beast cannot turn and face Death; he doesn't have the strength.

“You must be so tired.” Death croons, his voice is close as if the lips spilling it are only inches from his ear. It sends a shudder through his wooded body. “Having to keep up with the world, even as your magic separates you from them. Even as you have had to sacrifice your humanity and take their lives. Would mine not be a welcome embrace?”

Beast swallows thickly. Death’s voice is warm and inviting and soothing. It gently beckons, and he stares resolutely ahead. 

“I've always wondered, why out of all the things that anger you, my stealing other’s souls to keep myself alive has never bothered you.” He forces himself to say, to try and divert, to keep Death from hitting the nerve he is so clearly aiming for.

Death makes a small huffing sound colored by humor and shifts behind him. 

“They’ll be mine when you are. They already long for my touch. Can’t you hear them?” Death pauses as if to let Beast listen, but all he hears is the crackling of the hearth, warm and gentle. “They sing so sweetly for me, begging for me.” 

Breath, warm and tempting, teases down Beast’s neck. A teasing promise of nips and bites and kisses to come, lingering, warming his cold flesh-  _ bark _ \- he corrects himself. It lingers at the junction between neck and shoulder as if a tongue is going to dart out and sweep across his bark at any moment. 

He sits like a bow pulled taught. 

Death can’t touch him. 

Not while he still lives.

That doesn't stop him from tempting- from teasing- from  _ torturing _ .

“Ah, but none sings so sweetly for me,” Death murmurs, and the words spill like warm honey across Beast’s shoulders, the edge of a smile in his voice. “As yours.” 

“Please.” Beast begs, voice broken, “Don’t torment me like this. Let me enjoy your affections while I have them.”

Death's voice does not lose any of its sweetness. 

“Are you not pleased by the way I show you my love?” The hot breath on his neck moves, and for a moment, he could weep with relief, but it returns, warm against his ear. “Would you prefer I held you close and profess my love against your flesh? You need only give the word, and I will kiss you if you like.” His breath catches, and Death pauses, waiting for his answer.

He doesn't know if he can cry anymore, but his shoulders shudder.

There’s a part of him that so desperately wants to say yes. 

“What's wrong, Beast?” Death asks after an eternity held in minutes, voice still the sweet thrall of a lover.

And there's another part that is scared.

Not of Death. That would be far too easy. 

Of losing Death’s love.

“Don't be cruel.” He pleads, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Says the one depriving me of my beloved.” Death hisses cruelly, but with one last breath of warm air across his shoulders, one final promise, one final threat, he falls silent. 

He leaves, and Beast is alone again, staring into a cheerfully crackling hearth.

The Beast stares forward at the glowing embers and dancing flames. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can do this. 

He doesn't know if he can do it to himself anymore. 

He doesn't know if he can do it to Death anymore.

* * *

He presses the dagger to his chest without thinking, without seeing how it glints silver, catching the moon in it.

It hangs there, poised over his heart. 

Where his heart might have been, years ago.

It scrapes bark, and for a moment, it seems he’ll plunge it into his chest. 

The dagger falls to the ground in a clatter, and his hand darts to the scratch it’s left against his chest. 

Like tainted ichor, Black drips slow and viscous, spilling over his fingers- claws- and staining the snow like ink spilled across parchment. 

The voice comes from the trees.

“Such a shame.” Death admonishes. “I hoped you might.” 

Beast falls to his knees and stares at the black where it makes fractals in the snow, his dagger disregarded to the side. 

Black. 

When had he started bleeding black?

It can’t have been so long ago. 

He used to bleed red. 

He had been human once. 

When had he ceased to be?

Mortals were meant to die. They were born to do so.

“There’s no need for you to take your own life, of course.” Death murmurs, his voice circling closer. Beast cannot look up from the snow. 

A life burning to smoke, chasing the relief of going out. 

He was a fire burning with the need to become smoke. 

He burned, and he ached, and he wanted. 

“I’ll take it myself soon enough.” Death’s voice rings in his ears. 

When had he ceased to be human?

Was it with the woman in white? The groom he killed on his wedding night? 

The girl with the kitten? 

When?

The boy and his sister? 

The gentleman in the purple hat?

The young woman already seeking Death? 

Had it been before that? 

Had it been the boy, the first boy?

When had he traded his humanity for his life? 

When had he ceased to burn for the sake of extinguishing and begun to burn for the sake of burning?

“You’ll be mine soon enough.” Death’s voice is so close, right in front of him.

He can’t tear his eyes from the snow, from the stains, from the dagger.

Death leaves, and he is alone staring into the snow, at the reminder of what he has lost.

He could give in, have what he wanted, even if it was transient.

He was a greedy thing though, he wanted to draw out what he wanted as long as he could bear.

He did not know if drawing out being loved was worth the pain he was inflicting upon himself by denying himself a taste.

Perhaps he was selfish. 

But he wanted so badly he burned. 

And he had burned so long he wasn’t sure he knew how to become smoke anymore. 

* * *

It was a fire that ended up killing him.

Perhaps he set it, perhaps he could have put it out and pretended he didn't notice it, perhaps he had let the fire go unattended for too long. Perhaps he could have outrun it or fled. He was certainly fast enough. 

Perhaps he truly hadn't noticed it, so tired and exhausted even as his home went up like kindling.

Perhaps it had been intentional. 

He would never admit to it.

He still stood proudly before Death, trying to build himself up for when he was inevitably torn down.

“Well.” His brows slanted up. “You have me now.”

Death surged forward to embrace him.

He feels like a piano wire, wound too tight, finally snapping.

Wherever Death touches, he strips away the souls that Beast had used to keep himself alive. They are heralded on to whatever part of the afterlife is reserved for them. 

Death's touch is warm against him, hot and searing and consuming.

“Poor Beast.” The words are murmured against his shoulder even as kisses are pressed against the length of his body. “So long deprived of my touch.” 

He arches against void, and Death laughs, his mirth reverberating up through Beast’s body.

Death is rapture. Death is resplendence. 

“Oh, I have been waiting a long time for this.” Death murmurs, voice so sweet and sincere, elation tinging it. “23 lifetimes and you are just as wonderful in my paws as you were when you were alive.” 

It is so strange to be alone in his mind, the souls that had once crowded for their palace against him stripped away, and he is left, naked wood and fire doused in water.

The broad wet stroke of a tongue makes Beast shudder, Death flush against him laughs, and the sound blends through him in fractals, reverberating like a song caught in crystal, reflecting and refracting through him.

He’s falling apart, splintering, ripped into shreds cradled lovingly by euphoria. He’s coming together, stitched by love and Death, united and pieced together. He doesn’t believe in heaven, but as pain and hunger are stripped away, silky warmth blooming in its place, teeth digging into his shoulder, contentment sinks into him, infusing, he sees stars and smoke, fire turning to smoke, heaven suspended in a moment. 

He could weep. 

He doesn't believe in heaven, has never chased ascension, and yet Elysium is sweet on his tongue, the ragged edges of his soul soothed over, cradled and beloved, every part of him tucked against Death.

He feels undeniably small.

“A bit quiet perhaps,” Death whispers against his lips. “I imagine you’re a little overwhelmed.”

Beast grabs at nothing, at the abstract, and his hands find purchase. His claws must be punishing, but he cannot bring himself to care. He shoves his face in the crook of a neck, which may or may not be there, and nods.

Sweet laughter blossoms up around him, and he allows himself to relish, for once, in being extinguished. 

Not flame. 

Not ember. 

Smoke.

* * *

The first decade of their union passed just the same as the first night. 

Between sweet kisses and warm embraces, Death lavished its affections across his bark, murmuring sweet nothings against his beloved. Death embraces him, and they hang, in a starless night, an afterlife untouched and unmolded, it’s single inhabitant far too occupied. 

Beast, for the most part, hangs unresponsive in his grasp, allowing the affections but never bringing himself to return them, too scared of being cast away, disregarded. 

It’s a gentle art, coaxing Beast into anything more than merely cherishing Death’s affections.

Death does not mind. 

Death has eternity to assure his lover that Death will not disregard him, that Death will not grow bored in ensuing eons, and he shall see to it that for the rest of eternity, all Beast knows is Death’s love. 

Beast’s soul still sings for Death, love hotter and sweeter than ever. Death hears its lovely hymn and hears how it is stunted by fear and doubt. 

He sings back, low and sweet, lavishing himself against Beast, gentle reassurances, sweet murmuring kisses.

The second decade is marked by clinging. 

Beast’s claws clutch at Death. He begs, between whimpers, for him to stay. He clutches Death against him, abstract and physical clashing in his arms, face buried in the crook of what might be a neck, mouth constantly moving in a plea, a hymn never-ending, fear ever dawning. 

He still truly believes that he will be abandoned, cast aside like a toy unloved, an object that has served its purpose. 

And yet he craves, he wants so badly for this to be his eternity. 

Death hums against his lover, assurances plastered across Beast’s bark between nips and strokes of the tongue. 

Death croons sweetly as claws dig against his being, as a mouth presses against him, teeth sinking against him. He is pleased by each show of affection reiterated, reflected back at him, each plea which dissolves into a kiss initiated by Beast.

The third decade Beast begins to relax, seemingly somewhat assured that this will not be ripped away from him. He reciprocates, placing desperate kisses against the vast unfathomableness of Death’s being, hands clinging and searching. 

Death meets him and surrounds him in rapture.

Sometimes, Beast can be tempted to sing. And when he sings, Death joins in their voices a harmony, Death following along, sometimes leading the song, pulling Beast close into a waltz through untouched night.

Lullabies, waltzing songs, wedding tunes, rhymes and children’s songs, their message perverted when spilling from the tongue of Death, a chorus, a medley, blending an omen sung, a prayer, a praise, a hymn, a plea, mirrored in one another.

By the fifth decade, he has carved his place in the afterlife. Perhaps he isn’t creative when he bends it to his will, but Beast’s afterlife is not so different from his life. A cabin, isolated in a wood devoid of human life, framed by agony marred trees in perpetual night. 

The moon hangs high above the mists, a half-lidded eye glowing and painting the harsh edges of the night in sterling as shadows blend and meld. 

A song twines through the forest of his Death, a song about burning and extinguishing, a duet that makes the night churn and writhe, soft and pliable against his claws.

Death clings to him at all times, curled upon his shoulders or grasping his hand or wrapped about his arm. 

Beast is a candle, wick still smoking.

And Death is a gale, an unstoppable relentless force fierce and howling. 

Beast is small and fragile, his life as transient as flame. 

Death is unyielding and unforgiving. 

Beast is smoke, torn from his wick by Death and pulled in his wake. 

He is buffeted on, caressed, and cradled by the storm.

* * *

Death’s hands roam across Beast’s body as he lays in the bed, head twisted awkwardly to account for his antlers. 

A smile presses against the back of his neck, all pricking teeth and long tongue, as hands and ribbons map across his body. 

One of the hands catches across the ridges of his bark, and Death pauses, tracing the edge of the bark. He had taken the sharp blade axe there a few years before he died. The wood had never quite healed correctly, the gouge still distinct. 

“I can remove this.” Death murmurs softly against his hip as he places a kiss against Beast’s shoulder. 

Beast hums, sleepy, and warm. 

The hand splays across the old wound.

Beast blinks and forces himself to focus.

“The wound? It doesn’t pain me.” Hands tap idly, making rhythms against him, the drumming of fingers against wood, plucking out a tune. 

“Not just that.” Death nuzzles against his shoulder, nosing the line of his jaw, teeth scraping. “Your curse, my little sapling.” 

Beast goes stiff against Death’s embrace, considering.

The hands trailing across his body pause, awaiting. One hand grips his hip. 

He opens his eyes and gazes about his corner of the afterlife, positively dripping with Death’s presence in every corner.

Death evidently grows bored of waiting for his answer and begins to occupy itself by digging its teeth into his shoulder, a tongue laving across the new gouges before teeth return to mar up his bark again. 

Claws rake down his body. 

Eventually, Death speaks up again.

“I can peel it all back, strip it all away.” 

Beast considers it, Death waiting patiently, more distracted by seeing how tangled he could get in Beast’s antlers and how many teeth he can sink in Beast’s neck. 

“No,” He says at last and hisses as teeth dig into his shoulder particularly deep. A kiss is placed against the juncture of his neck in apology. “I am not that man anymore. I have not been for a long time. This body is me, as I am it.” 

Death hums. 

“I hoped you might say that.” A smile is pressed to his flank. “I like you.” 

“So you say,” Beast answers melodically. 

“So I do.” Death singsongs back. “And I have eternity to prove it.” 

And he does. 


End file.
